Darkburn Book 3: The Gates of Kelvha: Darkburn, #3

By Tayin Machrie

The first battle against the stonemen has been won. Now Huldarion and his Riders have a chance of respite in the kingdom of their powerful allies, Kelvha.
There Huldarion is seeks a bride, while the others merely seek a little rest and relaxation. But there is little chance of either. For hidden under the city walls is the captive darkburn: and the Kelvhan lords have plans for it...

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tayin Machrie
• Release date: Feb 6, 2024
• ISBN: 9798224056019

Tayin Machrie

Tayin Machrie is a pseudonym.  The author is not important (and is not on social media.)

Book preview

Chapter 1

For a long time the only witnesses to the procession had been the foxgloves standing sentry along the country roads. Now, as the line of Riders drew closer to the city, a few villagers emerged from huddled houses to look at them with wary curiosity. One or two women bobbed a curtsey. Huldarion knew his scars were being stared at and commented on; he would have to get used to that. Although he had been in Kelvha several times before, it had been under another, less conspicuous guise, and not at the head of an army.

The rustic walls and flowers became a formal double row of linden trees: they bordered a wide, straight avenue so bright and luminous with spring that the Riders began to smile, and even to joke light-heartedly, forgetting all battles for a time. Huldarion allowed the laughter until they rode up to the gates of Inner Kelvha. Plain, functional gates, these, used mainly to check the goods that were carried in by the constant stream of traders. They were not so massive nor so decorative as the next set of gates would be.

Here he turned and held up his hand; and pair by pair, all down the long line, the Riders of the Vonn fell quiet and wiped the pleasure from their faces.

Huldarion nodded. Although he didn’t begrudge them any of the laughter, it would not do just now. As the gates swung open he beheld the new line of sentinels awaiting them: neither flowers nor trees this time, but a large company of cavalry, sitting upright and motionless on their horses until, as one, they saluted with their swords. The co-ordination was impressive. Then, without a single word, a troop of ten took up a place in front of the Riders. More Kelvhan cavalry closed in on either side, as stiff and formal as if on parade.

It made him uncomfortable. Too much ceremony, too soon. Or were they guarding Inner Kelvha from some sudden rampage on the Riders’ part? There was not much here to guard: only a few straggling rows of cottages, little different to the ones they had already passed – except that no-one ventured out of them to stare. No inhabitants were visible once they were through the gates. Had everyone been told to stay indoors?

He wanted to discuss it, but did not like to speak to either of his nearest counsellors: neither Thoronal on his left side, nor Solon on his right. In this kingdom it was important to appear aloof. With some relief he saw the Kelvhan commander, Rhadlun, ride towards him.

My Lord Huldarion! Welcome to Kelvha. We shall escort you to the castle where the High Prince eagerly awaits your coming.

Thank you. I trust Prince Faldron had an uneventful journey home from the battlefield?

He came home restless for more action, bless the boy, Rhadlun said indulgently, and immediately wanted to be out again hunting stonemen, but sadly for him there are none left within a hundred miles. He’s calming down now.

As his horse fell into step alongside Huldarion’s, Rhadlun began to chat with a casualness that gave Huldarion as much unease as the silence of the soldiers had earlier. Not enough ceremony, now. Although Huldarion was a widely-travelled man, he felt the insufficiency of his understanding of aristocratic Kelvhan manners. Tiburé, the most knowledgeable Rider to ask about such things, was well back in the line with all the other women. While he had promised that he would not hide away the women of the Vonn, they needed to remain unobtrusive.

He tried to match Rhadlun’s casual tone whilst saying nothing of any moment. You reached the city more speedily than we did, then, he commented.

Yes, our army made swift progress. Our companion, however, took a little longer.

Companion?

The darkburn, Rhadlun said with a blend of satisfaction and contempt. A dreadful, stinking thing, worse than a peasant in a pigsty.

But considerably more dangerous.

Oh, we’ll take good care of it, don’t worry.

Where will you keep it?

Safe, said Rhadlun in a tone of finality: by which Huldarion understood that the captive darkburn was no longer to be considered as any of his concern. He wished that he didn’t have to think about it; or, since he did, that the idea of the darkburn did not fill him with such dread. Nausea. Hatred. And fear: a fear which he had never showed, but which he knew that he would always feel. It was burned into him.

It’s not surprising, he told himself. It is permitted. When you’ve lost your entire family to a darkburn, and half your skin into the bargain, you are allowed to feel a little fear. He visualised the darkburn huddled in the corner of its iron cage, a blur of heat and darkness, never properly seen and even less well understood. An instrument of death: its aura of despair and dread contaminated all the area around it. He hoped that Rhadlun’s idea of safe was strong enough.

In any case there was nothing he could do about it now. So he turned the conversation to the land and buildings that they passed: the small, fenced fields greening with young shoots of wheat and barley, the untidy rows of terraced cottages latticed crookedly with bean-poles. He imagined that in the summer they would be entirely smothered by their beans.

People lived here, Rhadlun told him, using the Kelvhan word that denoted people of the lowest class. There were three other Kelvhan words for people, of increasing rank, to culminate in Rhadlun’s own. Some of these lowest citizens were now visible; they were working in the fields, and paused in their tasks, straightening up to watch the Riders pass. When two of the Kelvhan troops turned their horses towards them, immediately the workers bent to their hoes again.

The land is productive, Rhadlun said complacently. How is the land around your latest base at Thield?

Middling farmland, Huldarion replied. His tented town of Thield had just removed itself and re-encamped in Outer Kelvha, some way east. He preferred not to discuss its exact location and in response to Rhadlun’s unsubtle probing he murmured non-committal nothings.

All the time, as if to say I am not Thield, I am far greater, the wall of Kelvha City was approaching them: an imposing wall, which grew ever more imposing by the minute. Only the tallest castle towers were visible above its ramparts. Their narrow windows seemed to watch the Vonns’ approach.

Another two miles closer, and the wall loomed high above them, its heavy grey buttresses a signifier of the wealth and power that lay within. Power to which I must ally myself, Huldarion thought – somewhat resignedly – to have any chance of regaining my own birthright and my kingdom of Caervonn.

He admired Kelvha’s powers of organisation and respected its army. But was it really wise to bind himself to a country so much larger than his own? Well, wise or not, it was necessary.

We shall enter by the East Gate, Rhadlun announced, as the procession turned to ride around that lofty unforgiving wall. Huldarion knew why: the East Gate was the grandest of the four city gates. Although they were approaching from the north, the north gate was an unimpressive affair and the northern quarter the poorest and most dilapidated sector of the city. Rhadlun would not take him through it.

He did not tell Rhadlun that he knew this. Instead he listened to the Kelvhan commander listing the various feasts and amusements that he would soon have to endure. The hidden undercurrent – which he was sure Rhadlun was aware of – was the choosing of Huldarion’s bride.

Three meetings, Tiburé had said. Half an hour at most to choose one from a handful of young offerings. Stars help him. And stars help the unknown sacrificial bride who would have to cleave to his burnt and disfigured body.

At the eastern side of the city the broad gates were already being heaved open. They were reinforced with metal bands and studs in intricate heraldic curlicues; but the adornment could not disguise the strength beneath. A metaphor for Kelvha, he reflected.

He entered into the shadow between the walls without acknowledging the row of guards all standing to attention. Such discourtesy went against the grain with him; but, again, it was expected.

Once he was inside, out of the sun, the way before them was as full of spectators as it had earlier been empty. He thought these people had most likely been encouraged to turn out and cheer. Which they duly did.

However, the cheers, he felt, were for the Kelvhan cavalry in all their glittering gear and armour, far more imposing than that of the Riders of the Vonn; the stares were generally for him. He kept his face impassive – not difficult, for it had become the habit of the last twelve years – and heard murmurs in the crowd speculating about his identity. Although he understood the Kelvhan tongue he took care not to seem to hear.

They evidently thought he was some foreign warlord. Which he was, he supposed, though come here to forge an alliance, not wage war. The war would come later, when with Kelvha’s aid he hoped to finally defeat the stonemen and reclaim his distant kingdom of Caervonn. But that was still a long way off in time as well as place.

Without staring back, he analysed the people. They looked neither ragged nor unhappy, and were probably of the next rank up from the farm labourers: tradesmen and lesser townsmen.

Behind them, down the winding streets, the tall, many-storeyed houses seemed to teeter dangerously, for their upper floors overhung the lower; but since they had stood thus for centuries they were unlikely to fall down upon the Riders now. The higher storeys were bright with heraldic banners dangling from lintels or from ropes slung across the streets; those streets themselves were clean, and mercifully unburnt. Kelvha had never known the fires that had ravaged first Caervonn and then, more recently, so many places in the north. Small but not insignificant places.

Yaret’s account of her home town of Obandiro and its few survivors had moved him greatly. Did she wake every morning feeling the flames, as he did? But no, Huldarion reminded himself, Yaret had never felt the flames. She had not even seen them: had only seen the smoking aftermath. Still, that made a bond. He had tried to tell her, not that the grief and pain would pass, because they would not: but that they would become more bearable companions. His own grief and pain shadowed him every day. Yet the shadows were not always dark, and they served to remind him of his duties.

Yaret had nodded as if she already understood. He visualised her riding with the women back behind him, so many hundred miles from home – a home of burnt-out cottages and charcoaled corpses – yet getting on with her job. Whatever she thought her job was. Revenge? No, not just that.

He recalled his thoughts swiftly to the present, for there was a sudden small commotion to his left. Two people had run out of the crowd, dodging the Kelvhan horses to stand before him. Rhadlun, cursing underneath his breath, was fumbling for his sword when Parthenal rode up alongside them, his own sword drawn and pointing at the pair. A knight defending his chief: Parthenal always looked the part.

Come no closer. What do you want? demanded Parthenal, his voice ringing. Huldarion appreciated his comrade’s swift reaction although neither of the pair in front of them looked like a threat. One man, one woman, both were unarmed: both oddities.

For the man stood in a twisted, slantwise way, some deformity of his spine making it impossible for him to stand upright. And while the woman stood straight enough her face was marred by a cleft lip. Although she spoke in Standard, her speech was not altogether clear.

Borgun! We implore you, use your powers to make us whole.

Borgun? he repeated.

Borgun, take pity on us! beseeched the man, holding out his hands to Huldarion as if in prayer. You understand our suffering, for it is your own. Alleviate it if you will!

What are you talking about? said Parthenal, his sword still pointing at them.

They are talking nonsense, said Commander Rhadlun savagely. It’s superstitious jabber. I’ll have them removed.

And at his curt command a handful of the guards rode their horses at the pair. The woman was shoved back unceremoniously into the crowd, who did not seem too sympathetic to her: but the man squirmed between the stamping horses and escaped the soldiers’ grasp. He threw himself on the ground in front of Huldarion.

Borgun! Help us! he implored.

I know no Borgun, Huldarion said sternly. Get up. I cannot help you.

But you are he! Like you, we suffer, and we will be uplifted! You will uplift us, Borgun!

At that point the man was indeed uplifted, by two of the Kelvhan soldiers who picked him up between them and carried him roughly away. The other guards rode at the murmuring crowd to drive them backwards. There was a last despairing yell of "Borgun!" before the man was hustled out of sight.

He looked at Rhadlun for an explanation.

The Kelvhan commander shrugged. Superstitious idiots, as I said. It’s just some old story that people like that have latched on to. If they were any lower-born they’d not have survived to complain about their state.

Their state, said Huldarion, with only the faintest note of enquiry.

Their deformities. No offence, my lord; even if you were not high-born I would never label your scars with such a loathsome word, for they are the marks of battle. Every Kelvhan warrior of note has battle scars. I do, myself, said Rhadlun, with affable condescension. But those people are born deformed.

They are unfortunate.

On the contrary, said Rhadlun, they are fortunate to be alive, and should not push their luck by making an exhibition of themselves in the streets.

Huldarion felt it best not to pursue the subject. He could make enquiries about Borgun later on. Right now he had more important things to think about.

More important than people? said an inner voice.

Ah, but they are not my people, he responded to himself. And this is not my land. And not my laws.

The crowd stood further back now, held away from them by some understood if unseen barrier. They rode on past new rows of sentinels: trees once again, in a formal line along the street, but so shaped and regimented that they stood to attention as rigidly as any soldier. He could not tell of what variety they were.

That is how they like their people too, he thought: conformity. Well, I can conform as necessary, for a while. We all can.

These sentry trees bore no fruit and made no rustle. Their motionless, translucent leaves might almost have been carved out of some green gemstone. At last the avenue ended as the Riders of the Vonn approached the inner wall, each of its stones more massive than a man.

Set within it was the carved and gilded barrier of the great Keep Gate. Beyond the gate, its presence looming over every thought, proud, strong and many-towered, was Kelvha Castle.

Chapter 2

Parthenal looked around his chamber with a mixture of doubt and satisfaction. It was somewhat cell-like in its shape, with a single small, high window, yet its furnishings were luxurious to the point of absurdity. He didn’t need heraldic emblems on his bedclothes, or a gilded lampstand shaped like a stag; while the mosaic that almost filled one wall – a hunting scene in shards of coloured glass – was particularly disconcerting. Not least because it must have taken months of work; and all for what? It was dazzling, but it wasn’t beautiful.

On the other hand, the room was private. That in itself was a luxury which most of the Riders staying outside the castle would not share. And it was warm, although there was no fireplace: the warmth came through the floor, by some ingenious system of pipes, no doubt. Huldarion could probably explain it. There was a carved chest for his baggage, far larger than he needed. And when Parthenal tried them, the bed and chair were comfortable enough.

He lay on the low bed with legs crossed for a few moments, contemplating events so far. Only six men had accompanied Huldarion through the Keep Gate: the others were lodging in the city. So poor old Rothir had been left outside. His riding partner, having incurred Huldarion’s displeasure, was not one of the chosen six. But Rothir had expressed no jealousy although he had never been inside Kelvha Castle.

Neither had Parthenal. Despite several stays in Kelvha in the past, this was his first time inside the castle walls. When they had entered, he had been careful to look straight ahead – with no unseemly display of curiosity – but gained a general impression of extremely solid stone walls and high towers, a series of large courtyards with a maze of passages leading off them; and servants. Servants everywhere. In the third courtyard, where they had finally dismounted, a well-behaved crowd had gathered to view them. Male only, no women.

He had allowed himself one glance across the craning heads, concealing his interest. They were a good-looking people, these Kelvhans, although clearly many of the servants were not from Kelvha but from further south. That blond, well-shaped man...

Parthenal had looked away. He would be ascetic here, as far as that particular pleasure was concerned, and would content himself with the other luxuries on offer. Beginning with a banquet this evening, and apparently another one tomorrow: after weeks on the march he was looking forward to some decent food.

There was a knock on the door. When he opened it, a servant stood there, a ewer in his hands.

Hot water, sir.

Thank you.

I’ll put in in your washroom. This young man was remarkably well-dressed for a servant, with velvet sleeves and bleached hair in a finely-plaited top knot that Parthenal assumed was fashionable here. Having placed the ewer in the small wash-chamber – another luxury – the man turned round and smiled.

I am Jaul, sir, your equerry. By which Parthenal understood that this was not a servant at all, but a lesser member of the nobility, allocated to him as his squire. Not unattractive either. He nodded.

The Arch-Lord Nerogun will receive your party in a half-hour, Jaul went on. After the reception, there will be the banquet. If you wish to wash and change, I can take your travel clothes away for cleaning. He stood there as if expecting Parthenal to strip off on the spot.

Thank you, said Parthenal. I will put them outside the door. After a moment Jaul bowed and left.

He had few items of clothing; might have to buy some more. There would be opportunity enough for that, for Kelvha City was awash with markets, catering for all levels of society. Meanwhile, after washing he donned the best of what he had and strapped on his sword-belt. This was by the orders of Huldarion.

Every man is taller when he wears a sword, Huldarion had said to his six men. It will remind them of who we are.

And Huldarion’s word was law to him. More than law. Standing before the unlikely horses glittering on the mosaic wall, he unsheathed his sword and held it upright before him, closing his eyes for a moment as he silently swore fealty to his chief – his king, in all but actual position. That throne awaited, if they could be successful here. So he must play his part.

He kissed the sword before he sheathed it once again. Then he was ready.

When he left the room Jaul was a little way down the torch-lit passage, waiting for him. He seemed to nod appreciation of Parthenal’s appearance before he led him through the maze of corridors and into the sudden blinding sunlight of yet another courtyard – a private one this time, or as private as it could be with a dozen narrow windows looking down on it from every side.

Here the others were assembling from various directions; Huldarion’s six chosen Riders were quartered all over the castle rather than in one spot. Parthenal was not sure what the reason for that was, but was sure that there would be a reason. So that they could not confer too much, perhaps; at least, not without being noticed. He gave a warm greeting to Sashel, who had so recently lost his brother, and a less warm greeting to Thoronal, for he could feel his older cousin’s disapproval of him even here. But Aretor was a more congenial companion – if not the brightest intellect – and Uld and Solon, the two elder counsellors, were reasonable enough.

Huldarion arrived and cast his eye over them. Parthenal hoped he saw no cause for dissatisfaction. But Huldarion smiled; a rare and difficult thing for him, because of the scars. Better than the sunshine, thought Parthenal, and no less necessary to me. He felt himself grow taller; never mind the sword, all he needed was approval in his leader’s eyes.

As they strode across the courtyard into a great hall he was aware of being watched by many other eyes. As one of the tallest and most striking of the Riders, he knew he drew attention. A little dark for Kelvhan tastes but his warrior appearance made up for that.

And that was why he was here. For his looks. So behave, he thought, be lordly: keep your eyebrows aloofly raised, your eyes open and your mouth shut.

At the far end of the echoing hall they were received by Nerogun and the young Prince Faldron – a likeable enough lad, in Parthenal’s view, if a bit shallow, but the years might put that right. The Post-Regent Nerogun, a solid and imperious man in his fifties, was by all accounts the one to watch. He had been in charge since the old king’s death a dozen years ago and more, and would be the main ruler of the country for the next year – until Faldron became High King on turning twenty-one – and probably beyond that, if he could.

Compared to the lively youth of three weeks ago, this Faldron seemed dispirited. No, that was the wrong word, for he was still cheerful. He greeted the Riders gladly enough, but the youthful ardency he had shown on the battlefield beside the Outland Forts had gone. Prince Faldron here seemed subdued and passive.

Doesn’t like being back home and confined, thought Parthenal, he wants to be out on a horse in his hunting-ground, not here making small talk under Nerogun’s thumb.

But Nerogun gave the Prince an easy means of escape. Let me take you round the castle to meet some of the officials, my Lord Huldarion, he said. Your Highness, I expect you will not wish to accompany us?

No, I have seen quite a lot of the castle lately, Faldron answered, somewhat listlessly. Yet up at the Outland Forts he had been eager for Huldarion to visit Kelvha; had seemed keen to show him round his kingdom. Perhaps the realities of diplomacy bored him.

So with a bow to the High Prince they left him, and, led briskly by Nerogun, proceeded on their tour: which was not so much to meet officials, Parthenal was soon certain, as to be made aware of just how strong and extensive Kelvha Castle was. This was the flourish of an armed fist, if a friendly one.

The sentry towers, the armoury, the knights’ hall, the guard-houses, the treasury and crown room were all displayed to them with an air of "What have you got to match this?" Even the dungeons were described, if not displayed, with pride; leaving Parthenal in no doubt that they were as solidly imposing as the rest. The décor, with all its gilt and jewel-bright paintings, mosaics, coats of arms and banners, could not hide the unyielding weight of stone beneath.

The officials, by contrast, were insignificant in their appearance, and designedly so. These were the men who did the actual jobs of Treasurer, Chief Herald, Keeper of the Crowns, and so on, while the titles belonged to noblemen whom Huldarion would meet later at the banquet. The noblemen had their own luxurious offices but none were present there: evidently the vast bulk of the work was delegated to these busy, careful, lower-ranking men, who bowed deferentially to Nerogun with varying degrees of anxiety.

Parthenal noted that anxiety. It could be seen in all these men except the Keeper of the Swords – or rather his deputy – a strongly built, soldierly man who was almost swaggering in his demeanour as he showed off the rows of blades stacked in their cases and hanging on the walls of the large armoury. Perhaps he owed his confidence to the quality of the ironwork around him. The swords were very fine. Rothir would like this, thought Parthenal, and he opened his mouth for the first time.

Do you have a forge within the castle?

Inside the north wall. Next to the bakery ovens, the man answered. Though that darkburn you brought back could replace both functions all on its own, I think. He grinned at them in a way that Parthenal felt was over-familiar.

Then don’t think, Iajo, said Nerogun sharply. You are not paid to think.

M’lord. The man bowed, but sketchily, without any of the deference shown by the other officials.

Once they had left the armoury Huldarion said to the Post-Regent, I gather that the presence of the darkburn, then, is generally known.

Only to certain higher ranks within the castle, answered Nerogun, making Parthenal wonder about Iajo’s exact status. The creature itself is both well hidden and well guarded, naturally. This is the last of the major offices, my lord; there are of course still many others, like the stables, the falconry mews, the kitchens and the archives, all available for you to visit if you are interested. His tone implied that Huldarion would be above all such trivial things, although Parthenal himself felt quite interested in the first two, at least.

However, Huldarion said, The archives may be useful to us. Amongst the wealth of learning that you no doubt store here, there may be information relating to the darkburns.

Really? What sort of information would you hope to find?

The darkburns’ history: where they might have come from, how they are made.

Nerogun looked sceptical. That would be better learnt from examining the thing itself. And our archives, you understand, hold the long and extensive records of our own nation, but not of others.

I understand that. Nonetheless...

If you wish. With a shrug Nerogun led them past the tallest tower to a long, low, many-windowed edifice that leaned against the castle’s outer wall. Leaned, literally: despite its lack of height it was the only building that was not perfectly straight and upright. The roof bowed slightly underneath its ragged tiles.

One of the oldest parts of the castle. Seven hundred years, I’m told, and looks it, said Nerogun with a faint air of contempt, as he led them through the creaking door and into a well-lit space, past desks where several men were industriously writing. Behind them were stacks of shelves laden with scrolls and volumes. The place smelt of dust and leather. Tradition, of course, must be maintained even if it is a little ramshackle... But the building serves its purpose. It’s good enough, is it not?

It is most impressive, said Huldarion, and Parthenal supposed that this would be true if you took an interest in old documents. He had an idea that this place might be even bigger than the great library of Caervonn. Would that still be there? He had never cared much for its contents, yet the memory of that vast quiet space filled him with an ache of nostalgia.

This reminds me of the library at Caervonn, said Huldarion, giving him a faint shock of affinity. So close, so unattainable... He ought to be used to it by now. Somehow he never was.

They had reached the middle of the long room, and Huldarion’s last remark was aimed at a man who sat at a semi-circular desk, hunched and peering at some document which he was annotating with a quill. On being addressed he jumped up with a start, knocking over his pen-stand and sending the sheet fluttering to the floor. He half-stooped and straightened up twice, clearly not knowing whether to pick up the parchment or ignore it. Parthenal wanted to laugh. He bent and retrieved the sheet, handing it to the writer: a small, nervous, bumbling man, the sort, he thought, who had been born middle-aged.

I’m told he has a fine mind, murmured Nerogun, but it doesn’t often show. Our archivist, Tamu: this is the Lord Huldarion of the Vonn.

I’m not actually the – that is, I mean, that is to say, the office of Keeper of the Scrolls belongs to the Arch-Lord Welgun–

Yes, yes, we know, but I don’t think we need trouble him at present. Your query, Lord Huldarion?

Have you heard of the creatures called darkburns? asked Huldarion.

I’m not sure if I – are they – should I have...? His eyes darted to Nerogun in apprehension.

If you haven’t, for stars’ sake just say so, expostulated the Post-Regent. He rolled his eyes.

I, er, that is – no. I mean possibly. I think I may have heard something of them.

Patiently Huldarion explained the nature of the darkburns and his interest in their genesis. The little archivist listened, blinking and bobbing his head like an anxious bird.

Well, our scrolls are generally concerned with Kelvhan history...– he blinked again, glancing up at Nerogun – that is to say, with the glorious chronicles of our noble realm of Kelvha from the first High King Khal-Arethgun, who, who much appreciated, I must say, I am sure, the aid in battle of your own noble forebear King Dorial of Caervonn–

Yes, yes, said Nerogun.

–in his many mighty victories, concluded Tamu in a breathless gabble.

Huldarion said gently, Might there be contained within those chronicles anything that is of moment to us?

Well, I – I suppose it’s possible, there are the Quests and Dialogues, let me see, and I believe in the reign of Garean some of the scrolls may perhaps have dealt with, ah, extraneous matters... He made a move towards the shelves.

Not now, for stars’ sake, said Nerogun. We have a banquet to go to.

I am afraid we cannot linger. But if you should find anything, I would be very grateful if you would bring it to us without delay, said Huldarion. He nodded courteously to the little man and turned to go. Parthenal bent down again, to pick up the scattered quills and lay them on the desk. He smiled at the archivist, who stared back at him with something like shock.

Come, Parthenal, said Huldarion, with faint amusement in his voice. Parthenal thought he might be the only one who could detect it. When they were out of the building, and as Nerogun was striding ahead, Huldarion murmured, It will not do to smile at too many servants, let alone pick up their belongings for them.

But we want that one on our side, I think, he murmured in return, looking at Nerogun’s back. The Post-Regent, he felt, would not trouble to stir himself for the Vonn. But an anxious and despised little archivist just might.

You know what I mean, said Huldarion, and Parthenal did. Well, there was no need for Huldarion to worry there. If he were tempted to smile at anybody in that way, there were plenty of tall and handsome Kelvhans around for him to choose from. Not least his own equerry, Jaul; he had sensed something in the young man that suggested he might be responsive.

But you could never be certain of such instincts. And you would be a fool to succumb to them in Kelvha.

Chapter 3

I t was a very fine banquet, said Parthenal, rather smugly; lavish barely covers it. Enough tender lamb to feed all Veron’s wolves, and about thirty different sauces, in every flavour from cherry to lavender.

I didn’t care for that one, put in Sashel. Perfumed sauce is very strange. They perfume some of the wine as well.

Yes, I noticed you were sampling all the wines, to check.

Well, Huldarion needs somebody to act as wine-taster, Sashel said. Yaret was glad to see him looking relatively cheerful, although she hoped he would not seek consolation for his brother’s death in wine – perfumed or otherwise.

Sashel and Parthenal sat lounging on the unpadded chairs in the somewhat austere lodgings of the male Riders who had remained outside the castle walls. Yaret eyed them with affection. They looked very handsome; at their ease. She thought that they already carried a faint sense of Kelvhan superiority. That air of lofty privilege.

Don’t get too used to luxury, will you? said Rothir, who perhaps felt the same. It’ll be a horrible shock when you return to normal.

All the more reason to enjoy it now, said Parthenal, stretching out his long limbs.

We had mutton stew last night, said Ikelder regretfully. Or rather, turnip stew with the odd shred of mutton lurking at the bottom.

But the cheese was good, said Yaret.

The cheese could knock your head off at ten paces, said Rothir.

Exactly.

Well, turnips are probably better for you than thirty perfumed sauces, Sashel said. I’ll be as fat as a barrel after a week inside the castle. The half-dozen Riders present all laughed more appreciatively than the comment merited. They were still being very careful around Sashel.

And the women? asked Delgeb. Were they there at the banquet – Huldarion’s prospective brides?

Yaret knew that this was the question everyone had wanted to ask. But Parthenal shook his head.

No, no yet. That’s the highlight of tomorrow’s banquet, I believe. Last night the only women present were the nobles’ wives. Huldarion has already memorised the names of all the lords and ladies. I don’t know how he does it.

He has a brain, said Rothir.

I have one of those.

But little-used. I don’t suppose you found out any more about the mysterious Borgun?

There’s nobody in the castle I can easily ask, said Parthenal. You’ve got a better chance out here.

Ah, but the same rules apply to us as to you, Delgeb pointed out. And especially to us women even more than you men. We all have to behave ourselves, and be careful what we say to strangers.

I’m doing all that, said Parthenal.

Ha! I’m sure you are, polecat.

What? Parthenal sat up straighter and glared at Delgeb. "Polecat? Only Yaret is allowed to call me that."

But Yaret is too polite to mention such matters. So I will.

For stars’ sake, said Parthenal, I know, I know. I’ve already had the lecture from Huldarion about not giving anyone the eye. It’s all very well for him. He’ll get the lady of his choice tomorrow.

We’ll want all the details, Delgeb warned him.

And then there’ll be the consummation before the marriage even happens.

"We won’t want details of that. Stars above, it doesn’t have to be witnessed, does it?"

No, said Rothir. Though I wouldn’t be surprised, in this place.

They do like their formalities, said Yaret. Going back to Borgun... Might your little archivist be a possible one to ask?

Little Tamu? He’d just blink and shuffle his papers anxiously, Parthenal replied. No, I don’t want to terrify him any more than we have already. You could ask at an inn or somewhere like that, where people will talk freely.

But they won’t talk to us, said Rothir. He sat with his freshly-polished sword across his knees: a characteristic pose, thought Yaret, and so forbidding that it was no surprise that people wouldn’t talk to him. He might as well have Beware of the Vonn imprinted on his forehead.

This afternoon Durba and I are planning to do a tour of Kelvha City, she said, so if I get a chance I’ll ask around.

Well, Durba certainly won’t be able to, said Parthenal. Has she said anything yet?

"Yes and no. I mean, that’s what she’s said. Yes and no. Otherwise, she’s still stammering."

It will take time, said Sashel, and everybody nodded gravely.

She seems happier in your company than with us, commented Rothir to her.

I’m not Vonn.

What does that have to do with it?

She needn’t be ashamed of suffering from battle shock with me, said Yaret. She knew that in fact Durba would be happier in Maeneb’s company – if Maeneb could be persuaded to take a closer interest in her; but it was all Maeneb could do to endure being in close quarters with all the other women in their lodgings, which were even more basic than the men’s. Maeneb said the voices of the city echoed round her mind with such a clamour that she could scarcely breathe, let alone think.

Yaret, on the other hand, was eager to be out amidst those voices, exploring the winding tunnel-like streets of Kelvha City. It was fabled for its markets and for its sheer size.

She had one particular aim. An object that burnt constantly in the background of her mind: a formless, furious thing of heat and darkness. But she did not mention looking for the darkburn in this company, because Rothir would not approve.

So when he said, You and Durba should be careful out there, she just replied, Of course.

He was referring to their femaleness; but Yaret wasn’t worried about that. She and Durba both wore male clothing, and although her own male mode was more effective than Durba’s – both through long practice, and through her lack of anything that could be labelled prettiness – Durba was obviously Vonn and therefore untouchable.

So she was slightly put out when Ikelder said, I’ll come along with you, if you don’t mind. I’d like to look around the city too.

Good. You take care of them, said Rothir to Ikelder.

"I have been to Kelvha before," Yaret pointed out, a little surprised at Rothir’s concern. He was not usually so peremptory.

Only Outer Kelvha.

But I speak the language.

Like a country bumpkin, said Rothir. Speak to a noble in that accent and they’ll kick you down the road.

Really? She hadn’t been aware of it. Perhaps Ikelder’s presence would be helpful after all. It was not that she disliked Ikelder. On the contrary, she was rather taken with the contrast between the young man’s ungainly awkwardness – all knees and elbows – and his notable skill in battle. Hesitant off the field, he was focused, calm and disciplined on it.

And he was kind to Durba, although the battle-shock she suffered from seemed to be unknown to him. In fact, Durba might even be the reason for his request to accompany them, she thought; although he must know that he’d be wasting his time there – so maybe simple kindness after all...

All right. We’ll meet outside our place in an hour, she said to him.

So an hour later, when she and Durba clattered down from the attic of their narrow lodging-house, Ikelder was already waiting outside the door. He greeted them with a diffident smile.

I’m told the shops in the western quarter are the best, he told them. Would you like to go there first? Then he waited for Durba’s answer without any of the slightly patronising patience that some of the Riders showed. Well, that Thoronal showed, at least.

Durba pulled a face.

You’re not keen on shopping? asked Ikelder.

M... m...

Maybe? suggested Yaret. Durba nodded.

The truth is, Ikelder said to both of them, I need some clothes. Mine are all very much the worse for wear, and next to the Kelvhans I feel like I’m in rags. Durba nodded again, in agreement. And I’m no good at bargaining. Durba shook her head.

Oh, wonderful, thought Yaret. My afternoon in Kelvha City is to be spent in haggling over undershirts. I need some myself. But I need to learn about the darkburn more.

She sighed inwardly and traipsed along with them through narrow streets whose upper storeys almost kissed each other overhead. There were even makeshift bridges across some of them, from roof to roof, precarious passages. The footpaths down below were so gloomy that she wondered how those living in the lower storeys fared. Not much light could get through those little many-paned windows. They’d need their lamps kept lit all day.

It was a fair distance to the market that Ikelder had suggested, and as they walked, gradually Yaret understood that Kelvha City was bigger than she’d thought: bigger even than its reputation had suggested to her. She had imagined that inside it might be equivalent to perhaps ten Obandiros packed together.

But her estimation had been way out. It was more like a hundred Obandiros – no, two hundred. The maze of streets was noisy and bewildering. Yaret soon realised that her idea of walking all the way around the city walls to see if she could find any signs of the darkburn could never have been the task of a single afternoon.

And even if she’d been alone with Durba, she would not have escaped notice. Their plain hairstyles and long green cloaks marked the other two as Vonn; and so did Ikelder’s voice when he halted at a stall to speak, although his Kelvhan was certainly better than her own. On using some words that were unfamiliar, he explained to her that they were honorifics, which were expected when dealing with the different ranks of people. Her own Kelvhan, she thought in some dismay, must sound very rustic and uneducated in comparison.

Despite his assurance with the Kelvhan tongue, the three of them attracted stares. However, nobody troubled them: rather, they were treated with careful courtesy. As Ikelder had predicted, this was a well-off quarter, judging by the people they saw around them. Plenty of fur linings and elaborate embroidery were on display; and that was just the men. The women were more discreet, cloaked and usually hooded so that their faces were half-hidden.

When they reached the clothes market, Yaret saw immediately that the quality of goods was high – and the prices even more so. She’d be lucky to afford a single plain shirt here. And most of them weren’t plain.

Do you have anything a little cheaper? she asked the stall-holder in Kelvhan, keeping her voice in the lower register and letting loose her northern burr. In Moreva the prices aren’t this high.

Moreva? Well, you’re not used to decent stuff there, are you? We’ve got these, he said, carelessly pulling out a pile of shirts from underneath the counter. The linen was coarse and loosely woven. It would scratch. She fingered them, sighed and moved further away from her companions to inspect cloaks with a weaver’s knowledgeable eye. Good wool: strong weave: strange colour choices. They liked things bright here. She supposed that the difficulty of dyeing cloth a clear red or blue – as opposed to a soft moss-green or oak-brown – must account for at least some of the eye-watering prices.

With amusement, she realised that the two old women next to her were busily discussing Durba and Ikelder.

Those are Vonn, you know. The ones who’ve just arrived. They come from down south somewhere. Our Prince has helped them in their battles. Not too handsome, are they?

"My Logun said that some of them are quite